George Washington's Ghost

“Well,” the German Minister asked, lighting a cigarette as he joined the officers on the balcony of his office to gaze at the lights of the ships in the bay, “what do you think, gentlemen?”

“That bloody cruiser in the bay still has her guns trained on us,” Claude Wallendorf sniffed, irritably.

“At the Weser,” Peter Cowdrey-Singh offered.

“At the dock, whatever,” the German muttered, very nearly lost in thought.

“When the tide ebbs I noticed it pulled a lot harder than I expected on the Weser’s moorings,” the Royal Navy man said, similarly distracted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if, were she to be cut loose, she’d drift straight into the San Miguel the way she’s dragged her anchors.”

“That wouldn’t help,” Wallendorf apologised. “If that happened the Weser and the San Miguel would block the

Emden in…”

“Ah, yes, but only if the San Miguel remains moored fore and aft,” the Anglo-Indian suggested, unhurriedly eyeing the movement of flotsam in the muddy waters of the bay.

Hans von Schaffhausen was studying the near-deserted quayside; until a couple of days ago, there had been several armed men guarding the gangways, stationed onshore and on the decks of the ships.

“Still no communication from your normal contacts in the government, sir?” Peter Cowdrey-Singh inquired of the German Minister, gesturing across to the other side of San Juan Bay.

“No, this is the third day running I’ve been fobbed off by a particularly supercilious underling. Ever since I refused point blank to discuss the future of you and your men other than to raise the repatriation issue, in fact.” Von Schaffhausen sighed, and made an admission. “My last conversation with the authorities ended badly when it was put to me that the surviving Kaiserliche Marine officers of the Weser should be put on trial as war criminals.”

“Cheeky beggars!”

“Yes, just so. Anyway, there are more soldiers posted on both of the roads leading into the Concession this evening. For all I know, the jungle around us may be crawling with Dominican troopers. If we act, we must act tonight, gentlemen.”

The two Navy men looked at each other.

“Is that possible?” Von Schaffhausen pressed.

“This would be a thing fraught with great risk, Herr Minister,” Claude Wallendorf cautioned. “Also, I must remind you that I have no idea what damage those idiots have done to my ship!”

Von Schaffhausen did not reflect overlong.

“How would we proceed?”

Wallendorf looked to Peter Cowdrey-Singh.

“We keep things simple,” the Royal Navy man declared. “We send your Marines in to seize the Emden and the Weser. No mucking about. We shoot anybody who makes trouble. Thereafter, everybody just piles onto the Emden pronto, and all non-operational personnel are sent down below decks behind some armour plating. Obviously, even those dozy beggars on the San Miguel out there in the bay will eventually notice something is going on; however, personally, I doubt her captain will do anything without first

consulting higher authority because that’s the way joke navies like the Armada del Santo Domingo work. In the meantime, once we’ve got the Emden in our hands, we send your Marines back onshore to guard the port area while the civilians are chased onto the ship…”

Claude Wallendorf opened his mouth to speak.

Peter Cowdrey-Singh had not finished: “The tide begins to ebb at two-fifteen tomorrow morning. That’s when we set fire to the Weser and cut her moorings. In the confusion the Emden puts a couple of broadsides into the San Miguel and we do our level best to get out to sea!”

Nobody said anything for several seconds.

“Then what, Commander?” Angela von Schaffhausen asked in a whisper.

The former Executive officer of HMS Achilles

laughed a little unkindly.

“I have no idea, dear lady. That was a thing I planned to worry about it if I am still alive at the time!”

Chapter 31

Sunday 7th May

Government House, Philadelphia

The Governor of the Crown Colonies of the Commonwealth of New England, Edward Philip Cornwallis Sidney, 7th Viscount De L'Isle, The Lord De L’Isle, Dudley and Northampton, bent and kissed his wife’s cheek before her chair was wheeled into the adjacent morning room. That Elizabeth had been well enough to accompany him to church the last two sabbaths, and to stand for short periods – granted, with a stick and his arm for support – was the one thing which had given him any real solace in the last few days.

Well, that and the news – the best part of three weeks ago now – that Henrietta was safe and sound in Portugal. Her disappearance and the coming of the war had stilled, for the moment at least, all those mendacious rumours about his youngest daughter and her companion, Melody Danson; as if he and Elizabeth cared a fig so long as their remarkable little girl was safe, well and happy!

God in Heaven!

Did people not have better things to worry about?